‘He doesn’t look dangerous.’
‘He has concealed his money and won’t tell us where it is,’ Erbin said. He rested the tip of the lance on the man’s breast and one of his men reached forward and tore his cotte open. Beneath it the man had only a pale, cream chemise, and the Welshman ripped it wide. Erbin allowed the point of the lance to fall to the man’s breast. It gleamed wickedly.
‘This is looting.’
‘No, this is the recovery of the Prince’s gold. We’ve won the town, and the treasure within belongs to our Prince. If a man conceals his wealth, he is setting himself in opposition to our Prince.’
The lance began a slow meander down the man’s body. It slid to his left breast, seemingly gently, but the blade was like a razor. A thin trickle of blood appeared from his throat to his nipple. And then Erbin moved and the lance was sent to the other breast.
From the merchant’s mouth came a thin, high keening. His eyes were wide, gazing up, away from the hideous weapon, and his head slammed from side to side as though he was trying to knock himself out. In the crowd, women screamed and wailed, and would not stop even when the men holding them back beat at them with the butts of their lances. One man pulled a cudgel from his belt and brought it down on the head of a grieving woman who instantly collapsed and fell silent.
Berenger turned and bellowed to his men. As they rushed forward, he once more faced Erbin, but now he drew his bow. ‘Release him!’
Erbin snapped a command and three men turned their lances to Berenger. ‘You’ll be dead before your arrow’s left the bow. Don’t be foolish, Englishman. Leave us to do the Prince’s work.’
‘Prince’s work be damned. You’re looting! Release him, said!’
‘If you insist,’ Erbin said. He withdrew his lance, turning and facing Berenger. Then, as Berenger let his arrow-point fall, the bow’s tension slackening, Erbin turned and thrust. The lance struck the man below the ribs, and he gasped, his entire body convulsing, eyes popping. ‘There, English, I’ve set his soul free.’
Berenger’s bow was already rising when two lance-tips touched his belly. He hesitated, the bow partly bent, the arrow ready.
Jack and Geoff were with him now. Geoff took one lance and hauled it aside, while Geoff slammed his bow down on the other, knocking it down and kicking it away, but it was too late.
The merchant was panting like an injured dog, the weight of the pole dragging at his body. He wasn’t dead, but the terrible knowledge of his doom was in his eyes as he stared at the weapon, at the blood running down the shaft and pooling on the cobbles.
At last the crowd was silent. The sight held all spellbound in horror.
Berenger handed his bow to Geoff. There were more Welshmen than their vintaine, and to fight them would have been pointless. They were all too close. A man with a lance has a long reach.
‘You do not fear the Prince?’ Berenger said, approaching Erbin.
‘He had nothing, but he attacked us,’ Erbin said.
‘You are like a boy who enjoys tying a burning bush to a cat’s tail, or beating a dog with sticks,’ Berenger snarled, and his fist caught Erbin’s jaw as he spoke, lunging forward with all the weight of his body behind it. There was a loud click as Erbin’s teeth connected, and then he stumbled backwards, spitting blood. Berenger followed him and kicked him in the belly, then punched him as hard as he could, his fist meeting Erbin’s skull just over his ear. The man reeled.
Berenger went over to the dying man, pulled the lance free and cast it aside, and as soon as he did, the wound gushed. It smelled rank in that town square.
The man sobbed quietly, staring at the blood pouring so thickly, and then cast him a despairing look.
Berenger drew his dagger and, before the man could speak, plunged it into his heart, both hands gripping the hilt, holding it there while the merchant’s mouth stretched wide in a gasp of surprise. He sagged, like a man going to sleep after a long day’s hard work, and Berenger saw a spark of gratitude flare before his eyes dimmed forever.
Berenger turned to see Erbin slowly climbing to all fours, where he remained, coughing and shaking his head. When he looked around, there was silence on all sides. The other Welshmen watched him sullenly, impassive – although two fingered their weapons. Berenger’s sudden attack had stunned them all into immobility. ‘Take that piece of dung away from here,’ Berenger grated, pointing at Erbin.
Geoff and Jack began to draw their bows, and the nearer Welshmen stood aside. The people held inside the cordon started to move away, nervously glancing from side to side as they went. Children sheltered from the gaze of the soldiers as their mothers pulled cloaks about them.
Berenger removed his dagger from the dead man’s breast. The woman who had been clubbed by the guard had managed to get to her feet. He saw that she was about one or two and thirty, with brown hair that held only a few grey strands. She stood with tears streaming down her face, her hand at her mouth to stifle her despair. Then, slowly, she fell to her knees in the merchant’s blood.
As two Welshmen helped Erbin to his feet. Berenger went to him. He grabbed Erbin’s shirt and methodically wiped the blood from his blade, staring into Erbin’s eyes all the time. While he did so, the woman rose and walked to his side. She took his hand.
‘Merci, Monsieur,’ she said in a low voice, and then turned to Erbin and studied him a moment before spitting in his face.
Béatrice was glad to have met this man in the inn. For the first time in months, she felt safe again, with someone to protect her.
His name, he said, was Alain. He came from a little hamlet not far from Barfleur, and had fled when the first news of the invasion came. Luckily he had no family, so he didn’t have to chivvy a wife or children; he could merely pack and leave at once.
‘The sights – well, you know. You saw the same,’ he said, turning his magnificent blue eyes upon her.
‘It was terrifying,’ she agreed. ‘I spent my time in fear.’
A man walking nearby caught a glimpse of her and made a lewd comment. She pulled her shawl tighter about her, drawing her legs up beneath her.
Alain stood up and smiled at the man. ‘You like the lady?’ he asked smoothly.
‘Yes. She’s a pretty wench. I’d like to cuddle with her tonight,’ the man said. He was built like a bear, with thick arms and legs, and a belly that would have suited a bishop. Greying hair framed narrow-set eyes.
‘I’m afraid that will be impossible,’ Alain told him. ‘You see, she is with me.’
‘What, are you married to that?’ the fellow sneered and took a pace forward as if to reach for her.
Alain suddenly whipped a knife from his belt and stood with it touching the other’s throat. ‘I say she and I are friends. I won’t see her hurt. So, unless you want to be leeched of all your blood, I would move away.’
A drop of blood like a tear-drop ruby appeared on the man’s skin.
‘All right, I get it – she’s all yours,’ the man said, and returned to his own seat with many a black look over his shoulder. Alain, however, appeared to care nothing for his new enemy. He chattered easily and calmly.
‘You will need be wary of him,’ Béatrice said quietly a while later.
‘Not I,’ Alain shrugged. ‘We shall leave early in the morning, before the drunken sot awakes.’
It was enough to calm her. For the first time since her father’s death she slept easy that night.
The box of communal flour was raided again. There was little enough food for the men when they returned to their camp from Barfleur, and now they were all watching their small oat cakes sizzling by the fire, chatting desultorily. Only Wisp was silent, his eyes filled with a terrible conviction.
Berenger walked over to the Donkey. ‘You did well today,’ he said as he crouched beside the lad.
‘I didn’t break down, you mean?’
‘You coped with the sights, is what I meant.’
Donkey did not reply but sat staring hungrily at the flam
es, seemingly entranced by the sparks and glimmers.
‘Tell me about it, boy,’ Berenger said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Those Welshmen. What happened to you in Portsmouth before we found you?’
He watched the lad closely. He needed to learn more about him, find out what was concealed in his breast. It was vital that he knew he could trust him. There was no room in his vintaine for someone unreliable.
‘What happened to you in Portsmouth?’ he repeated.
Ed sighed. ‘I heard of the men mustering. I had some coin saved, and I slipped from home and made my way to town. It was scary. There were strangers all about, but no matter who I spoke to, nobody wanted to take me on. Until I met Erbin’s men.’
‘How so?’
‘I was in an alley. They came past me, and I followed them into a tavern.’
‘They spoke to you?’
‘I asked if I could join them, and they laughed. But I had my purse with me, and I showed them my money. That was when Erbin said if I was to buy them ale, they’d think about it. He said the drinks would seal our pact. So I did, and then, when they were about to go, I asked him about joining them, and he spat at me and said it was a joke; they never meant to have me in their party. I wasn’t strong enough to hold a sword in battle, he said, so I could whistle for a position in the army. He didn’t even mention my money or my purse.’
‘And then?’
‘I demanded my money back, and they beat me up and left me there, lying in the kennel, where you found me.’
Berenger had watched him all through his speech. His fingers wound themselves about the loose threads of his tunic, and his eyes were occasionally at Berenger’s face, at times playing about the land all about them. His feet fidgeted, his toes tapping at the ground.
‘The money is gone, boy. And they probably threw away your purse. Try to forget them. They’ll forget you soon enough.’
‘How can I?’
‘Easily. As you get older, you’ll realise that it’s not worth holding a grudge. Those Welshmen didn’t try to insult you personally. They were in a tavern, you had money, so they took what they wanted. It is what men will do.’
He wasn’t explaining himself well, he knew. He had another go. ‘When I was younger, I used to want to keep holding grudges. I nursed them well so that they grew strong. And then, one day, I was given a pardon from the man I least expected to forgive me. Since then, I’ve tried to be worthy of it.’
‘A pardon?’ Ed looked at him with a frown. ‘For what?’
‘Helping a good man,’ Berenger said shortly. ‘So if I can do that, and be forgiven by his son, you can forgive a trick.’
No, the boy wasn’t lying. It explained much about the attitude of the Welshmen to the Donkey, their sneering and contempt. It also explained the boy’s own helpless anger in the face of their taunts.
But it wasn’t the whole story. Berenger was convinced of that.
16 July
Sir John de Sully was in his tent when his esquire scratched at the canvas. ‘What is it, Richard?’ he called.
‘Sir John, Berenger Fripper is here.’ Richard Bakere gave a meaningful look down at Sir John’s hands. The knight was honing his sword’s blade, rasping the soft stone along the edges with that familiar swishing hiss.
‘Good. Bring him inside.’
It was not Bakere’s fault, Sir John thought, but he did assume that his knight was too superior and elevated to sink to cleaning his own weapons. Damn that! Sir John had cleaned and sharpened and oiled and polished his own weapons for more than thirty years now. When he was too old to see to his own equipment, he would cease riding to war. For him, it was an essential part of a knight’s duty, to take care of his weaponry. His life depended on all being in perfect working order.
If he didn’t like it, his esquire could damn well seek a new master.
‘Fripper, come, take a cup of wine with me,’ he said.
‘You asked to see me, Sir John?’
‘Yes,’ Sir John said. While Bakere poured them both wine, Sir John studied the fellow. He saw that Berenger’s face was haggard. That was natural. They were all tired, after marching or riding all over the countryside without a proper bed. Although they had not been forced to endure the worst of the weather, marching in the heat was itself exhausting. A man trudged on, thinking wistfully of ale and wine, while the sweat soaked his hat and clothing. Soon, straps for knapsacks would wear away a man’s shoulder, and blood would begin to ooze. Necks would be rubbed raw, feet would develop blisters, and a man’s temper would fray. It was all too common, and no one was immune.
Still, there was something about this man that was familiar. He recalled that feeling from before, when he had visited Grandarse’s centaine.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said.
‘You and I walked together some years ago,’ Berenger said. ‘We crossed the sea and made our way on foot to Avignon.’
Sir John was still for a moment, then, ‘You were with me then?’
‘I was one of the party with the Welshman.’
‘In God’s name, that was a long time ago,’ Sir John breathed.
‘Sixteen years, I think.’
‘The years have not been kind to you.’
Berenger gave a grin. ‘Sir John, do you have a mirror?’
The knight gave a chuckle. ‘Aye. Every white hair has been earned.’
They were quiet for a while, both remembering: a long journey, walking to visit the Pope and deliver their charge into his care.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Berenger asked.
Sir John peered into his wine. ‘There was never anyone to hear from. The man didn’t exist, did he?’ he said quietly.
‘No.’ Berenger knew that their mission that year had been secret. No one could know of their companion, because he was officially dead. To talk of him had, for years, carried the threat of execution.
‘But now, I think he is dead. You have heard that our King’s son has been created Prince of Wales, like the King’s father?’
‘The King never took the title for himself, did he?’ Berenger said.
‘His father never relinquished it,’ Sir John said.
Berenger nodded. Edward II had kept the Welsh title for his own. He had always been inordinately proud of his Principality, and the people who remained loyal to him even at the last, when the rest of his realm crumbled and submitted to his adulterous wife and her lover.
Sir John took a deep breath and held up his drink. ‘To the health of a man who was already dead when he walked with us to Avignon,’ he said. The two toasted the memory, and then Sir John frowned. ‘Talking of Welshmen, there are rumours of disharmony between them and your men.’
‘Sir?’
‘The Welsh say that you’ve started a feud with them. It will not do.’
‘That is untrue.’
‘Have you not come to blows with them?’
‘You want an answer?’
Sir John eyed him. ‘Not really, no. But be wary of them, Fripper. They are dangerous enemies to have. Stronger men have been ruined by them.’
Berenger’s face went hard for a moment as he remembered the woman murmuring, ‘Merci,’ to him in the town’s square. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Are your men bearing up?’
‘Yes. Well enough.’
‘We’ll see their mettle when we have a real fight.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Good. And keep away from the Welsh, if you can.’
‘We will try to.’
‘That will help. You must remember that the Prince has himself only recently been elevated to Prince of Wales. Like his grandfather, he is proud of his Principality and its people.’
‘I understand,’ Berenger said. Then he added: ‘There is one among them, Erbin, who delights in trouble. At Barfleur he burned the town, killing many.’
‘So it is true about the feud, then.’
‘Not on
my part, Sir John, no. But he may have taken it into his head to cause friction whenever he sees me and my men, no matter what we do or say.’
Sir John considered. ‘Avoid him, and all will be well.’
‘Yes, sir. And do you have any idea when we are likely to find the French?’
Sir John smiled. ‘They will try to stop us very soon – before we can turn towards Paris.’
‘Paris?’ Berenger repeated, shocked. That was a vast city, from all he had heard. It would take more than a few score knights and ten thousand archers to breach her great defences.
‘We aren’t here on a reconnaissance, Fripper. We’re here to establish the King’s rights. For that, we need Paris. Or at least, to make a demonstration of our power that will so shock the French and Parisians, that they surrender to us.’
‘Yes, Sir John,’ Berenger said, but his mind was reeling. Paris! He had faith in his men, his army and his King, but to take Paris would be like trying to seize Jerusalem again! It was an appalling idea!
Sir John watched him go, grinning at Berenger’s reaction. They could not take Paris, of course. That would need many more men – he knew that perfectly well. But the French didn’t, and if the English made a strong enough demonstration in the direction of the capital, they might so raise the fever of terror in Paris that the citizenry would hand over the keys without a fight. If all went well.
Aye. If all went well.
17 July
They were marching at last.
‘Christ Jesus, it’s a relief to be moving,’ Geoff declared.
Wisp just grunted.
They had made their way down to the south of St Vaast-la-Hogue, and now the vintaine was descending a hill on a road that had been built for a peasant’s donkeys, rather than wagons.
‘You’re quiet,’ Jack said to Wisp.
Wisp peered up at the sky. How could he explain his despair? The sight of the hanged cat was an evil omen, no matter how a man looked at it. He was sure his premonition of doom was correct. ‘I am well enough,’ he said.
‘Glad I am to hear it,’ Jack said. ‘These French will mass enough men to trample us into the mire if they can. We need all the fellows we have. Even you.’
Fields of Glory Page 8
